


Not a Poet, but a Poem.

by hideeho



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, post-season two, rbficexchange, references to past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4634856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideeho/pseuds/hideeho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a poem,” he says simply, his amusement clear as he spares a glance at her face. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world to start reciting poetry as you traveled back from a genocide. </p><p>Bellamy reads Raven poetry. Sometimes she gets it. Most of the time she tells him to shut up and be useful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Poet, but a Poem.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pashmina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pashmina/gifts).



> For tungsten-illusionist / vorpalbladedwitch. 
> 
> Prompt 3: Bellamy reads Raven poetry. Sometimes she gets it. Most of the time she tells him to shut up and be useful.
> 
> All mistakes are mine. (See the end of the work for more notes.)

“You owe that guy money or what?”

Raven ignores Wick’s question as they continue the long walk down from Mount Weather. It’s not a real question anyway; merely a desperate attempt to fill the silence. She likes the silence. It’s a nice break from screaming. 

Brown eyes dart up long enough to register the familiar gaze of Bellamy staring over at her, but it’s not enough to make her break her nearly three hours of silence. She’s too tired to make sense of his expression. It’s not the concern, guilt or anger she’d expect. Bellamy is looking at her like she’s a language he should be able to decipher but can’t quite crack the code. Well, fuck him for staring. It’s rude. 

They could all think whatever they wanted about her. She had been drained dry only to be filled with agony, but at least pain meant she was alive. ( _Alive. Alive. She was still alive._ ) She’d pat herself on the back for the positive thinking if she wasn’t trying so hard not to cry. 

Step. Pain. Anticipation of pain. Repeat. She can tell Wick’s injury is bothering him, can tell in the way he keeps adjusting her, squeezing her tighter, attempting to hold on even as his arms grew weak. It’s hurting him and it’s hurting her, but pain is inevitable; she knows that now. 

Step. Pain. Anticipation of -- “ _Shit_ ,” she swears, clenching her eyes shut as he stumbles; her leg crying out as the movement jostles her wound. Bellamy is there before she can come up with more creative language and he really needs to stop looking at her so intensely. 

“You need a break.” Bellamy might be talking to Wick, but he’s looking at her. Or maybe he is speaking to her; she can’t tell. His words might have been considerate if they weren’t barked like an order. He looks at her for a moment longer, waiting for permission before grabbing her and letting her feel like she still has some sort of control. A nice gesture for a girl who couldn’t get two steps without them. 

“He’s right, you need a break. Even if you weren’t injured you couldn’t carry me for eight hours.” Wick looks like he might protest, but she reaches her arms out to Bellamy to assert her decision. The transfer is sloppy, Bellamy holding her as if she was a bomb that might go off and the slightest movement. Or maybe he was holding her as if she was something precious, but that didn’t feel right. Not when she’s broken and frayed. 

The silence is easy between them. He doesn’t ask her if she’s okay, because it was clear she isn’t and he’s not an idiot. She doesn’t ask him why he keeps peering over his shoulder because it isn’t her business and it’s probably wise that he is. Occasionally she gets bored and traces the freckles on his face in her mind. Occasionally he catches her and stares until she looks away. He never looks away first, which is rather reckless when you think about it. He should be watching where he’s going. 

(She knows he won’t drop her. He could fall and wouldn’t drop her.) 

There was nothing to be done on the walk but think and Raven always worked best when she had a project. She’d need a new brace when she got back. Except she couldn’t build a brace without a drill and no, no, _no_.  

She could feel herself tensing, her breath quickening, could feel her leg scream with the reminder of the all-too-new  wound. 

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Her question came out harsher than she intended, but he is clearly losing his damn mind. “There are no roads and the leaves aren’t yellow.” He ignores her outburst as he tucks her closer to him, mindful of her wound. 

“It’s a poem,” he says simply, his amusement clear as he spares a glance at her face. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world to start reciting poetry as you traveled back from a genocide. 

“A poem.” 

“Poem. Poetry. You’re the smartest person on this planet. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” 

“I know what a poem is,” she snaps, tired and in pain and all too happy to focus her annoyance on him instead of her leg. 

“Good, then you won’t mind me sharing some with you.” 

“Bellamy, I appreciate the ride, but shut up. I’m not in the mood for five hours of poetry. I think I’ve suffered enough.” It’s meant to be a joke, but there’s enough bitterness in her voice that it’s hard to tell. 

“I’m not saying it for you. It’s a long walk and I want something to do. You might learn something.” 

“I believe in learning _useful_ things. Things that will keep us alive. Right, I changed my mind. Set me down and roll me the rest of the way.” 

“Okay, Ms. Dramatic. I’ve spoken one line.” And isn’t that rich. Him calling _her_ dramatic. “You might even like it if you gave it a chance. Give me three poems and if you hate it I promise to roll you the rest of the way.” 

She wants to argue with him, but Wick is still clutching his side and she doesn’t trust anyone else to carry her. This is also the longest she’s gone without wanting to cry out in pain since they began their march down. “Three poems, nerd. Then silence.” 

A grin spreads across his face as if she’s given him an extra dessert ration that he doesn’t have to share with anyone. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both. And be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth.” 

Trust Bellamy Blake, leader of the rebels and vigilante extraordinaire, to recite poetry as he walked through the woods. 

The poems were stupid, but his voice was low and calming as his words washed over her. His chest warm against her cheek, his scent oddly familiar for someone she had only known a few weeks. She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, waking only when he handed her back off to Wick. 

At least poetry was good for something. 

*** 

Raven has no doubt she’s the worst patient in the world, but it’s not her job to make other people feel better. Not when she was trapped in cot that sagged to the floor while she tried to heal. The process was slower this time, too slow, an infection from the dirty drill keeping her in bed longer than she had anticipated. 

She’d take her anger out on the people responsible for her misery, but they’re dead. Or allies. Or maybe not allies, but not currently trying to kill them. 

Besides, if people wanted to be around someone nice then they should find someone nice. 

She was tired of being coddled. She was tired of being treated like the broken thing she was. The only person willing to challenge her was Bellamy, but that meant enduring his poetry.  For a janitor (not that _Bellamy Blake_ had ever been just a janitor) he knew an ungodly amount of poems. He spoke their words like gospel and the key to his very salvation. She was pretty sure salvation would come from fixing their infrastructure, but what did she know. 

He told them over and over and over again until she could recite the damn things herself. It had gotten to the point she could correct him if he missed a word, but the smirk on his face proved he had only been testing her and _fuck that_. She didn’t have time for sentimental garbage. Neither did he, but try convincing him of that. 

Sometimes Octavia came in to listen, a wistful smile on her face that almost made her feel guilty for being so aggravated by them. 

“Our mom used to read them to us. She and Bellamy would challenge each other to see who could memorize the most.” 

That would explain why he looked so aggravated when he couldn’t remember a line. Why it looked like the world was slipping away with another poem lost. And shit. She might not see the use in poetry, but she wasn’t heartless. So she (barely) tolerated his poems and gave him shit, but let him recite them anyway. Whatever, it wasn’t like she liked the thoughts in her head anyway. 

So when Bellamy strolls in for the umpteenth time and makes himself comfortable beside her on her cot she doesn’t bother to look up from the walkie talkie she’s working on. His thigh is pressed against her own and she might have commented on personal space, but it was so nice to _feel_ something. Everyone else is so afraid to touch her, as if she’ll finally break into a thousand pieces and no one will be able to put her back together. 

“Me up at does, out of the floor,  quietly stare a poisoned mouse still who alive is asking: what have I done that you wouldn't have?” He looks tired as he speaks. She waits for  him to finish, but it would seem he is already done.

“Are you the mouse or the poisoner?” 

He looks at her then, scanning her face as if looking for the answer in her creased brow before shrugging. “I guess it depends on the day.” 

They don’t talk about what happened on Mount Weather. He doesn’t comment on the way her entire body tenses at the sound of a drill and in return she doesn’t ask why he always hesitates before pulling a lever; as if scared to see what ghosts might come pouring out. (She knows why, Jasper made sure everyone knew, but that doesn’t mean they have to talk about it.) 

“You really know how to lift a mood, Blake.” 

“We can’t all be a ray of sunshine like you.” She snorts in response and lets her head against his shoulder. His arm is warm and heavy as it wraps around her and she relishes in the feeling of having a friend. 

“What are you doing?” Wick’s arrival in her tent is sudden and she resents the guilty feeling that swells in her throat. Bellamy makes no move to pull away, doesn’t assert his hold or imply this is anything other than what it is. She wants to be angry at Wick for his jealousy, but she knows the confused face he’s making. Knows the pain of wanting more from someone who can’t oblige no matter how badly they might want to. 

(“I’m sorry, Raven. I just needed one more drink. Just one more. I’ll try harder next time.”) 

(“I never meant to hurt you.”) 

(“Don’t let me off so easy.”) 

Understanding that came too late burned like moonshine down her throat, blossoming in her chest until she was afraid it would burn her alive. She couldn’t give him what he wanted. She knew it before and she knew it now, but she had needed someone and was desperate to believe she could. So she held on. She knew better. She fucking _knew_ better. Knew what it was like to be in his shoes and wondering why you weren’t enough. 

“I’m figuring it out.” Her words dripped with a level of resentment that surprised even her. She might have known better, but he should have known better too. Wick looked as though she slapped him and for a moment she considers comforting him, apologizing for the harsh words, but instead she bites her tongue. She’s not that nice girl he wants her to be and she’s not going to pretend that she is. 

“Raven, I know a lot has happened, but you can’t keep pushing people away. Eventually you’re going to run out of people to chase after you.” His eyes fall over Bellamy before he leaves and she makes no move to stop him. Bellamy isn’t the reason they could never work, but that doesn’t matter now. It won’t make the sting of rejection hurt any less. She would know. 

Bellamy’s arm suddenly feels like it’s crushing her and she hates that he witnessed this. Hates the uncomfortable silence she doesn’t know how to break. Maybe she should look at him, but she doesn’t want his pity. Raven Reyes finally finds someone that wants _her_ and she doesn’t want them back. Figures. 

He lets the silence stretch on. There is no tension in his body and she can’t help but resent him for his ease. 

“You don’t need someone to chase after you, Raven. You need someone who can keep up.” She lets out a bark of a laugh that might have been a sob if she had any tears left to cry. 

“Has my love life become so pathetic that I have to get advice from you?” Her words are harsh and she brandishes them like a shield; protecting what little dignity she had left. 

Bellamy doesn’t say anything, simply allows his fingers to play with the ends of her ponytail. “I remembered another poem you might like.” 

She groans against his shoulder, but doesn’t stop him. Better a poem than talking about what just happened. “Fine, but it better not rhyme.” 

“It doesn’t rhyme,” he promises, lips curling up in a small smile. Sometimes she forgets how young he really is when he’s not playing savior. Fresh faced and freckled beside her, his curly hair falling over his eyes. She’d brush it away, but they’re not those people. “You are tired, I think, of the always puzzle of living and doing; and so am I. Come with me then and we’ll leave it far and far away. Only you and I understand!” His fingers tug gently on the ends of her hair, curling the strands around his finger before letting them slide back down her neck. “You have played, I think, and broke the toys you were fondest of and are a little tired now; tired of things that break and -- Just tired. So am I.” 

“That’s the end?” 

“No, but it gets a little sappy from there and I didn’t think you’d be in the mood for sappy.”

No, she really wasn’t. 

*** 

Later she’ll fix a generator in exchange for someone bringing her back a book of poetry from Mount Weather. 

She still doesn’t like the stuff, but Bellamy does. Besides, she’s tired of hearing the same ones all the time. 

He doesn’t smile when she hands it to him. Doesn’t thank her or even acknowledge it all. He knows where it came from and maybe it had been a stupid gesture. No, it had definitely been a stupid gesture. They don’t bring it up again until-- 

“I am not jealous of what came before me. Come with a man on your shoulders, come with a hundred men in your hair, come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet, come like a river full of drowned men which flows down to the wild sea, to the eternal surf, to Time! Bring them all to where I am waiting for you; we shall always be alone, we shall always be you and I alone on earth, to start our life.” 

He’s never recited a love poem before. 

“A thousand seems a little excessive,” she muses once he’s finished. 

“But doable.” 

“Oh, totally doable.” 

*** 

Clarke returns and is greeted with a hero’s welcome. 

(She doesn’t seek special treatment, but she doesn’t call it out either.) 

Bellamy stayed and was treated with the weight of their actions as necessity gave way to hindsight and people began to wonder _what if_. (What if they tried to negotiate harder? What if there was a way to only kill the people in the torture chamber? _What if, what if, what if?_ ) As if Bellamy didn’t do exactly what he had to do to save them all. As if he hadn’t risked everything for the chance to give them another day. As if he needed another reason to doubt himself.  

She doesn’t blame him for his frustration. Instead she fuels it on with her own righteous indignation. 

She knows damn well certain people matter more than others. Knows Clarke probably wouldn’t have rushed to pull the lever if she had been left on that table and not replaced by the other girl’s mother. Bellamy would have; she’s sure of it. Thinks he would have done it alone. 

She doesn’t know why she thought things would be different on earth. Maybe it simply hadn’t mattered to her before. All she knows is that she has come up with a hundred different ways to sew Kane’s mouth shut whenever he shoots down one of Bellamy’s ideas without listening. (She’s only threatened him with five or so, which shows real restraint on her part. She really doesn’t get enough credit.) 

So when Bellamy is shot down _again_ , she follows him out to the lake without question. The way is long and hard on her leg, but he slows his fevered pace when she stumbles and never leaves her behind. 

He clenches his jaw so tightly his cheek twitches and for a moment she considers reaching out to massage it loose. His fingers curl in and out of fists; rage so palpable she’s sure she could hear it humming through his veins if she got close enough. When they reach the lake he rips his shirt off, muscles sliding under skin as he tosses it to the side before taking off his pants. He doesn’t wait for her as he walks to the water, kicking off his shoes before diving right in. 

If she were a poet she might describe the way his freckles darkened like constellations across his skin. But she’s not and saying such sentimental garbage out loud was sure to make her vomit, which was rather wasteful with winter coming up.

With her shirt discarded and made into a makeshift blanket, her deft fingers move quickly to remove the brace, the movements so familiar it’s little more than untying an overly complicated boot. She sighs as she frees herself from the contraption; the rush of blood flowing back to her thigh sharp and necessary. With a little more trouble she pulls down her worn and tattered pants, wincing at the sight of newly torn skin where sweat rolled down and chafed against her bum leg. It seemed impossibly unfair that you could injure something that was already dead. 

“Your brace is too tight.” Raven wipes away droplets of water as Bellamy stands above her, scowling at him for butting in. If her eyes wander over taut abs, well, they’re _right_ there. 

“My brace is as tight as it needs to be.” 

“You’ve hurt yourself.” 

“It’s not like I meant to,” she snaps, angry at the reminder she can’t feel her own leg. That she can’t even tell when her skin is peeling back and bleeding. Like she chose this. 

He sits across from her, setting her foot on his lap as his fingers begin to knead the flesh. She wills herself to feel it, but there is nothing. Not as he runs his fingers along the angry red indentions where the brace held her skin too tightly, nor when he gently touches the angry sores that have formed when she wasn’t looking.  

“I can’t feel it.” 

“I know. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t help.” 

“Doesn’t mean it does.” For a moment she considers kicking him away with her good leg, but what does it matter? It’s not as though she can feel the way his flesh slides across her skin; his large hands big enough to nearly wrap around her leg entirely. (She remembers the way it feels, but memory isn’t near enough.) Droplets of water fall from his hair and slide down her leg and she wished she knew if it felt cold. “You’re making me wet.” 

She regrets it the moment she says it; especially with the way a devilish grin spreads across his face. “Not exactly how I pictured you saying that, but I’ll take it.” 

“Been picturing it a lot, have you?” 

“Sometimes.” 

It’s more honesty than she’s expecting and for a moment she’s thrown. Which is ridiculous when you considered the fact they had sex before, but that was a lifetime ago. Back when they couldn’t read each other's thoughts with a look. Not that she can read his thoughts now. His fingers linger just below the tan flesh of her thigh where nerves sparked alive and sensation returned. 

(And the fact he knew to stop there--) 

“May I feel, said he.” 

“Oh god, not again.” All at once she feels nervous. Was it nerves? Maybe it was excitement, but that still didn’t feel quite right. It was hard to think with his hand so to close her thigh. 

“I’ll have you know this is one of your poems.” 

“I don’t have poems.” 

“Fine, but this is definitely not one my mother taught me.” She’d comment on his shit-eating grin, but she’s focusing too hard on tiny droplets of water trailing down his cheek, the line of his neck, the valley of his collarbone.  He pauses for a moment, watching her watching him like he’s waiting for something. Permission, maybe. She nods for him to continue as she worries her lip with her teeth. 

“May I feel, said he. I’ll squeal, said she. Just once, said he.” Calloused fingers trace patterns in her thigh, massaging the flesh as his voice dances around the playful cadence of the words. “It’s fun, said she. May I touch, said he.” One hand hovers over her other leg, close enough she can feel the heat of his palm and she nods again. “How much, said she. A lot, said he.” Both hands move to caress her thigh, his thumb ghosting across the scar from the drill. She doesn’t know she’s sucking in a breath until she hears it in her ears, but his touch is soft and reverent and she makes no move to stop him. 

“Why not, said she. Let’s go, said he. Not too far, said she.” His hands move assuredly down her leg, mimicking the earlier touch she couldn’t feel. Now she feels. Now she feels far too much. “What’s too far, said he.” And like a cat that got the cream he smiles at her; lifting her leg until he can kiss the inside of her ankle. 

She doesn’t know what he thinks he’s doing, but she’ll be damned if she lets him stop. 

“Where you are, said she. May I stay, said he?” She finds herself nodding. As if he’s not simply reciting a poem, but his lips are brushing against the corner of her knee and that’s never been part of him reciting a poem before. 

(She would have liked them a lot more if it had.) 

“Which way, said she. Like this, said he. If you kiss ,said he.” All at once he’s behind her, his long legs stretching out on either side of her. His hands move to rub her shoulders, her neck rolling back as the tension is replaced with something that feels a lot like anticipation. 

“May I move, said he. It is love, said she. If you’re willing, said he.” He brushes his nose against the side of her cheek and the gesture is so gentle and out of place in this world it feels alien. It’s just a poem, she knows it’s just a poem, but it’s hard not to weigh the words as his own when his hand slides down her spine to rest where they bullet was pulled out. For the first time his hands seem to hesitate; his breath shaky against her neck before he carries on. 

“But you’re killing, said she. But it’s life, said he. But your wife, said she.” She gives him a sharp look over her shoulder, but he continues on before she can protest about that particular line. “Now, said he. Ow, said she. Tiptop, said he. Don’t stop, said she,” he murmurs against her ear, the playful tone replaced with something low and rumbling. Fingers trace the line of her bra as a shiver runs through her very core. 

“Don’t stop, said she. Oh no, said he. Go slow, said she. Come? Said he. _Ummm_ , said she.” 

“Sounds familiar,” she mutters, laughing as head bends down to nip at her shoulder. 

“You’re divine! Said he.” His lips are against her throat, sucking the soft skin as his hand fan out across her back and around to hold her against him.  “And you’re mine, said she.” 

His chin rests on her shoulder and for a moment she wonders how they got to this point. He’s still wet from the lake, but warm against her skin and she sees no reason to pull away. 

“Is she his,” she asks after a time, tracing the freckles on his arm with a single finger. 

“If she’ll have him.” 

“Can he keep up?” 

“He’d sure as hell like to try.”

“Then try,” she decides, craning her neck to capture his lips with her own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first attempt at fanfic in years and my first attempt at Bellamy/Raven. I hope I did them/the prompt justice. The poems that were lovingly borrowed are: The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, Me Up At Does by E. E. Cummings, You are Tired (I Think) by E.E. Cummings, Always by Pablo Neruda and May I Feel, Said He by E. E. Cummings.


End file.
